The Democratic advocate. [volume] (Westminster, Md.) 1865-1972, 1887-11-19
Select Story.
A CROSS OLD MAN

From Al the Year Round.
CHAPTER I.
How was it that came to live in Num-
ber Six, Bristol Terrace, Carchester? |
really don't know. [ might have chosen
any place under the sun from Newcastle to
New South Wales. l cannot say what
sudden impulse fixed my uncertain choice
on one of row of small suburban houses
with long narrow gardens behind, and a
far stretching view over the downs in
front.
l suppose 1 was partly influenced by the
fact that | did not know a single soul in
the dignifed, exclusive city of Carchester.
and by the exceeding probability that the
lofty indifference of its aristocratic society
would not stoop to be curious about the
insignificant existence of broken hearted,
soured old man.
For when I left the far off country home
of my forefathcrs L was running away from
myself, from my past, from all that could
recall to my outward senses the weariness
and hopelessness which had fallen on me,
and shrank alike from the possible curios-
ity of new acquaintance and the obtrusive
sympathy of old ones.
The neighbor nuisance was much more
serious trouble, only to be appreciated by
those who have lived without next door
neighbors to the age of fifty and upward.
1t was terrible shock to me when | found
that Number Five was let furnished, and
that it changed hands continually, with a
wonderful variety of trials to my love of
quiet I had no sooner got used to hear
ing the young married man-who ought to
have been ashamed of himself -blunder
along the passage and upstairs, swearing at
his frightened wife, than l had TO begin
over again with some people who gave
noisy parties every second or third night.
Their stay being over, was assailed by a
cautakerous parrot and an irritable pug;
then came large family of loud voiced
children, and so on ad infnitum. In
Number Seven lived some young ladies
who amused themselves and tortured me
by unceasing performances on very poor
piano. I took to playing the violoncello in
sheer selfdefense, that might curtain my
self round with noise of my own making,
and shut out the hubbub over which | had
no control.
Sometimes there was an evening peace;
the young ladies had taken their music and
gone out, and the furnished house was en-
ioying Sabbath between an exodus and
an invasion, and then, when was quite
sure that no noise from either side would
break iu upon my reverie, | would put my
cello into its case and hide the case away
under the sofa, and get out my old memo
ries instead, and sit over the fire with them,
while the hands of the clock crept round
and round, and the stars stole past the
window in long procession, each in turn
looking in on the morbid old man, whose
life hopes had ebbed away, and left him
stranded high and dry in a narrow little
house, where, though every one was too
near him, no one was near enough.
Far away on the coast of Suffolk an old
country house, long, low, and rambling,
with veranda on two sides, lies back from
the top of the cliffs that border the coast,
sheltered by a triple row of lime trees from
the east winds. Round the house wandcrs
an old fashioned garden, where each flower
used to bloom in a sweet succession Of sea-
sous. Beyond the garden is one of park
like meadows, called in the Suffolk parlance
"a lawn" from which ''loke'' (lane) leads
away to the sea- This was my birthplace,
the birthplace of my forefathers and of my
one little daughter, whom | named Mar
garet, after her mother, my first and only
love.
When we had been married about eight
years my wife died, died after so short an
illness that the roses which l laid in her
dead hands were the buds she had fingered
over the last time we had walked together
among our flowers. [ thought l must
have died, too, of my grief; but, as time
wore away the first terrible shock, | learn
ed to live for the child, who was every
thing to me now.
Little Margaret was beautiful child,
with laughing blue eyes and brown hair;
somewhat wayward, perhaps, but so sweet
withal that no one could forego loving her.
1 could not bear to lose sight of her l
even taught her myself that might have
her always with me. She was so merry
that l could not brood over my sorrow
when she was with me, and she learned
such womanly ways that | was sure her
dead mother must be very near us she'd
ding her influence over our Margaret.
Perhaps spoiled her little-I do not
think of that until too late. Her life pass
ed happily among flowers and birds, and
besides the sea. can see her now, rum
ming about under the lines, counting the
first daffodils that came out among the
grass, or filling her hands with primroses,
or watching the bees flying in and out of
their hives besides the low growing medIar
tree When she was tired Of play she
would come to sit by my feet with book,
or to nestle on my knees for story We
spent great deal of our Summer time by
the sea, on the lonely sands or the grassy
"dense," that stretched at the foot Of the
cliffs. We watched the great ships far out
and the fishing boats close in by the shore.
We found birds nests, and wild flowers,
and-but why go rambling on? 1t was a
quiet life of happiness, of which the story
Ia ant tn orayv wearisnma IN thoae Who hear